The Creation of the Diragh
They had failed. Completely, totally and utterly failed. They were failures. The nations had needed their gifts of healing, but they had failed. People had died. There were dead bodies everywhere. Soldiers. Men. Women. Naeglim. Two ashen-black spots tainted the area where two Naichars had fallen. Tirjan gazed over the field. Hopeless. It was all hopeless. They had been blessed from El Elyon himself yet the hordes were still advancing! Nothing could stop them! People still died, despite the healing gifts that they as Purified controlled. Why were the tides not turning? Why did soldiers still die? He had healed one man’s arm from a deep flesh wound, then a few moments later the man had died to crude pike thrust up his throat! Hopeless. Completely hopeless.
They were split now. The Purified. A few still hoped. Still believed they could help make a difference through their healing abilities. But others, including himself, knew better. There was no future. Beliar would slowly conquer Cilarion and rule it all. All El Elyon had done through giving them these gifts were to slow down the process. The ones that hoped had already begun their journey back to the temple. The temple that only those who El Elyon allowed could see. A group of them, thirteen, had remained, and were still viewing the devastating defeat which reminded them daily of their failure. They had been there three days now. The stench of death had been driven into their noses and dominated their senses. There was nothing but the dead, and the cries and screeches of ravens and crows which constantly pierced their ears. With an occasional ripping of a muscle or flesh by beaks.
there was silence. Utter silence. A silence screaming out that something was
wrong. A presence. Tirjan looked up and saw. There were two Deirm and a man. He
had dazzling, blond hair, fair skin, a black, flowing robe and blue, beautiful
eyes. But there was something wrong. A glint behind the eyes, a
darkness smeared with red. Tirjan’s companions had gathered around him. They
were thirteen against a man with two Deirm. If he now was a man…
Tirjan knew something was wrong. The Deirm themselves seemed to fear the man, or whatever he was. And Deirm were known to fear nothing…
“Greetings,” the man said softly.
None of them answered.
“I have come with a proposal. I know how you feel. I know the hopelessness that fills you. You want to win, you want power and to be in control. I can help you. You can be on the winning side again. All you have to do is join me.”
“Who are you?” Drashel asked, one of the more outspoken of them. He had always been a bit dumb and had annoyed Tirjan greatly as a pupil.
“My name, is Beliar.” A vile, black aura around him seemed to intensify, and Tirjan felt his insides tremble along with everything around him. “Perhaps, you’ve heard of me?” A hint of smile was on his face. The dry sarcastic remark was said slowly, increasing its fearsome effect. “I offer you, not only to keep your lives, but to gain powers beyond what you’ve had as Purified, powers that will allow you to cause fear into humans for generations to come. You can serve me and gain powers, or refuse, and die.” The last word was said heavily and the Deirm both unsheathed their massive two-handed swords.
Tirjan’s mind raced. It was hopeless anyway. This was their chance. Their chance to fulfill what was already inevitable. It was a chance at greatness.
His insides lurched. Something inside of him disagreed strongly. He felt an infuriating guilt and struggle happening inside him. Beliar’s eyes gazed upon him and noticed. Then they turned red and bore into him. Tirjan felt a honey-sweet voice whisper to him. Beautiful, calming music drummed up inside him. It was all right. It was all inevitable anyway. Cilarion would fall, so why not speed up the process and help? He would gain power and glory. He would be remembered. History would absolve him. Tirjan felt the last piece of hindrance die within him. As if a spirit had abandoned him and escaped out of his mouth as he said “I will serve you.” Tirjan fell to his knees and bowed before Beliar, who grinned. One by one the other twelve joined him and they all accepted Beliar’s proposal.
“You shall become the Diragh – the Cause of Pain, as it means in Beliarthong.” Beliar said with great satisfaction. “One of you shall become the master Diragh and serve by my side. Who will this be?”
All of them raised their hands, lusting for more power.
"Prove to me you are worthy, show me your skill,” Beliar said, another slight smile on his face. He knew what would come. “Oh, and I only need twelve of you. With me, that makes thirteen.”
Tirjan’s ability of how to heal had now turned into an ability of causing pain. His mind raced, and he looked at Deshel who stared dumbly, as if trying to think of what to do. He had no time to lose. He had to experiment and try to bring one of them down before someone else did. Tirjan pointed his hands at Deshel and focused. The knowledge of how he had once mended joints and tissues he now used to tear them apart. He visualized Deshel’s thigh muscle and then ripped his hands apart from each other. Deshel screamed in pain as his thigh muscle was torn in two. Before Deshel could react, being in agonizing pain, Tirjan imagined Deshel’s ankle ligament and then flicked his hand hard. It snapped. A piercing cry went out to the sky. Tears were streaming from Deshel’s face.
“Please… No more… I beg you… Tirjan… Master!” It was pitiful. Tirjan felt astonished at what he had done… The power… He was panting for breath himself. It had taken a lot of energy of him. But he relished it... There was a joy in wielding the power...
Beliar glared at Deshel with hatred. Anger flared and Beliar sent violet jolt of energy at Deshel who writhed in pain as his blood boiled. Lying in a pile, looking like a torn ragdoll, Deshel whimpered slightly, unable to pronounce any real sound.
“Finish him,” Beliar spat coldly. One of the Deirm approached him. Deshel just looked up as the two-handed broadsword was thrust into his chest, crushing his ribcage and then piercing through his heart. Blood flowed out of his mouth. His eyes rolled upwards. Blank.
“Congratulations,” Beliar said, this time to Tirjan. “You have earned your title as Dar Diragh, the lead Diragh. Let us return to Ashbel, where I’ll teach you how to torture someone endlessly, without killing them. You will be my left hand.”
Beliar turned and began to walk to the distant Aviols who were waiting for their master.
The twelve who were left
followed. They were in silent awe and consideration of what they had seen. A few gave a frightful glance at Tirjan, knowing that what he had done, they could all do... They had made
their choice. There was no turning back now. Fear rippled through their hearts
conflicting with the satisfaction of gaining power. It was done. They were the
Diragh. Causers of Pain.
Copyright © Danai Gabre, 2009-05-31